Is it the love of the name, or the person inside?
by a mountain of gideon's scones
Summary: Because he's the reincarnate of her Romeo, and to lose him again is more than she can bear. Samelie. R


_For spritesinger, Hanziii & Vitzy._

_I don't own anything_

_**SamxAmelie, aka Samelie.**_

**Title thanks to LunaMoon2012**

**Oh and Danielle is ridiculously awesomesauce and now loves this pairing like me...or she will...she better...**

* * *

_~x~_

It's the year 1514, the Spring bloom beginning to fall upon the blossom tress situated Greenwich Palace, the current location of the English Court of King Henry VIII. And it's the host of the most _splendid_ party that the entire court has seen, an extremely belated celebration of pure joy in regards to the defeat of the Scottish at Flodden.

It's a rather joyous occasion, drink flowing freely as men become more and more audacious in their actions within the court, something which Amelie continues to find disdainful. She has attended the court of all but one of the English Kings who have been in reign during her time in England, having deigned that Richard the Lionheart was not a suitable King to spend time with amidst his crusade and subsequent locking up within a prison in Europe. No, she had not attended here, yet here she is at the court of Henry VIII and hopeful as ever that someone shall catch her eye.

Everyone is just the _same_ to her, something that hasn't been helped by observing the progression of the aristocracy from their origins. With each new Duke or Lord, their arrogance seems to grow, their ego swell a little larger, until they are beginning to proclaim that they are capable to be the next King, that they have a greater claim to the throne – and, as per usual, Amelie knows that this shall only end in disaster.

No, she has suffered through the experience of being with the most handsome of men who turn out to be obsessed with bedding the most women and bragging – she has no desire to return to this. She finished with patronisation many years ago, having grown tired of it before she even turned into a vampire – all she desires is someone young and _kind_, someone who understands prejudice, yet in a way different to herself, naturally. After all, the only vampire who is handsome that she has met is Myrnin, and she would _never_ do anything to jeopardise their friendship – after all, he is the only companion she has.

Her eyes roam the room, her ears ignoring the sound of music as she instead attempts to listen in on the conversations ongoing throughout the three hundred metre hall. Everyone in the proximity seem to be the stereotype she expected to find, the pompous lords, the plotting nobles trying to usurp the throne, and even the women attempting to sell themselves as mistresses – it's just the same party as usual, euphoria heightening every single reaction through the room.

She can see the King sitting in his throne and remembers his attempt to make her his mistress, something she _certainly_ did not desire – to commit adultery would be a sin, something he ought to know. She had had to compel him into forgetting that he had ever tried anything with her, instead making him act as if she is his sister which then gave her his ear.

"He's taken, if you didn't know," a masculine voice startles her in a slightly embarrassing manner for a vampire – she allowed a possible enemy to stand right behind her without her even realising!

She turns slowly to be faced with a redheaded man with a cheeky grin, his eyes glistening with evidently what he deems to be a joke. He's handsome, she decides within less than a second, someone who she could imagine being with even for a short time, yet what about his personality? Someone who could be so bold and brash as to approach a woman from behind could only be trouble, she ascertains, so let him be put to the test.

Coolly, she responds, "Yes, I am _quite_ well aware of that fact, for he is my brother in all but blood."

He splutters slightly, evidently regretting taking a huge gulp of wine prior to her responding. "Wait…are you _serious_?" he asks her, his eyes widening as she nods her head slowly. "In that case, then, I apologise for insinuating anything about you deciding whether or not to seduce him or not," he continues, now veering towards the point of laughter in opposition to the shock of mere seconds ago.

She decides that he's intriguing, someone she could enjoy spending time with if only to laugh – his perceptions of right and wrong already seem to be shining through in merely three or four sentences, a refreshing change to the others…and she has only known him for a few moments!

"You never _did_ introduce yourself," she narrows her eyes as she looks at him, trying to decide whether she had viewed him before and discounted him within seconds, as with the majority of the other men in the room. Yet she knows that she would have at least remembered this man's outstanding beauty, the shining sapphire colour of his eyes along with the striking red hair atop his head that is so much more vibrant than the King's. He's the ideal she has been reaching for, she concludes, someone who already intrigues her to the point that she wants to just find everything about him.

"Apologies, milady," he bows deeply to her, an almost sarcastic edge to his bow – how he has achieved this, she does not know, yet this is the only way she can describe it. "I am new at court and yet to have had the experience of meeting such a beautiful woman, who appears not to be taken," his gaze lowers from her face to her hand in a way that indicates to her that he is confirming that she is not married.

"And yet your detailing of this experience _still _does not give me your title," she replies, growing impatient with his humour now she desires to know something about him.

"I am the Lord of Yorkshire, milady, now that you have desired to know nought but my title," he takes her statement literally, something that makes her smile despite herself. "And what title do you take?" he continues, though she is still thinking through the fact that the Lord of Yorkshire was an elderly man merely three or four weeks ago, someone banished from court due to his family heritage from the War of the Roses. Yet for the new Lord to be here…she can't comprehend.

Yet she is trained in her answer, having held this title as _her_ for nearly seven months having "inherited it from her aunt, who died suddenly" which was accepted instantly by the society she so enjoys to be part of. "I am the Marquess of Pembroke, a title handed down to me through my family and verified by the King," she informs him, smiling slightly as she realises she has held this position for almost three hundred years. Thankfully, with every court, the nobles and dignitary change so she is not recognised, the only near discovery being when she was spotted by the one man who survived through three successive courts – let it be known that he did not make it through the night.

His eyebrows rise as he processes the position of power this woman before him holds, before his face clears of anything other than a grin that appeals him to her ever the more. "And now, my Marquess, would you care to dance?" he indicates the floor to their right, the location where almost half of the population of the court have moved to dance to the music playing.

She can't stop her arm from reaching out to be taken by his; it's an instinct, one that she couldn't stop even if she wanted to – she wants to dance with him. He's intriguing and she could actually imagine spending more than three minutes with him, someone with multi layers for her to unwrap. He already makes her smile…and she's known him for less than ten minutes.

"Certainly," she verbally confirms, even as he is walking with her towards the dance floor. His skin is comfortably warm for her, the scent of his blood beginning to overwhelm her without her even realising – it's sweet and succulent, an aroma that entices her to him perhaps as an extra to simply his personality, and she desires to taste it – yet she won't…not yet, at least.

They approach the edge of the dance floor and she takes his waist, beginning to dance in the slow form that is only just beginning to come into style in certain situations, her eyes locked into his the entire time. They may have exchanged few words, yet she has already decided that he is different to the other nobles at court, that he isn't the same arrogant, womanising man the others are – he's unique, handsome and witty, someone that she wishes could be around forever.

But he won't be, will he?

Yet she looses herself in the moment, looses herself in the depth of his shining blue eyes, the ones that seem so utterly endless, akin to when she sailed the English Channel – she couldn't see the bottom, couldn't see right into the depths of the ocean, just like she can't see right into him. He's a mystery to her in part, someone with originality and the potential to get somewhere in life.

She can't shut her eyes, can't look away from him even as the song comes to an end and he releases her. It takes all her effort to remove her hands from his waist, to separate herself from his warm skin, a growing furnace under her touch as she seems to almost grow colder with every second she is near to him. He's delectable, perfect, handsome…just there's absolutely no way she could improve him, she doesn't think.

Finally, she looks away from him and her eyes lock upon the King in the distance, his gaze steadfast upon her. He doesn't look happy, she decides, this being evident in the way he holds his mouth, the way his eyes hold a sort of determined hatred in them, if the lack of forgiveness in there could be described in that way.

She continues to look his way, puzzled, until he almost shakes himself out and realises she is looking at him, when he turns away. For a minute, she thinks it could be simply that he was staring in any random direction…

But then she can hear what he says and she knows that it's going to be catastrophic.

_~x~_

He leaves before her that night, unsurprisingly since she is always the last to leave, always revelling in the beauty that the night brings her, the freedom to move throughout the streets without having to worry about burning alive.

Normally, she would be thinking about what she could do with her day, what she could while away the hours doing – but not tonight. Instead, the only thing she can see in her head is the Lord's face (she never did ask his name), the way that his hair danced around in the air as he smiled, the way that she could look forever into his eyes and never see the bottom of their depth – everything about him.

But as she gets closer to her home on foot, having waved off the offer of a horse from the remaining servants still awake and waiting for her departure, her attention turns back to those moments when she saw Henry staring at her: it probably felt longer that it was, yet something about him made her scared for the possibility of spending more time with this intriguing man, this man who would allow her to unravel his mystery rather than be an open book.

That is, if she is given the chance.

_~x~_

There's, thankfully, another feast and ball within a week, giving her a chance to learn more about this man other than that he is witty and an incredible dancer. She can't remember the last time she felt like she was floating on air like she did with him, can't remember the last time she has been oh so excited to attend court, for she knows that there is someone there who she wants to see.

"Amelie, calm _down_," is all Myrnin can say as she frantically rushes around their home amidst her search for the ribbon she desires to wear in her hair. "I highly doubt you shall be forbidden from the feast for simply being a tad late and if they don't allow you entry, eat them," he shrugs, ignoring her look of despair directed at him.

"I am not you, Myrnin; I don't eat _everyone_ who angers me," she rolls her eyes as she finishes getting ready, "After all, I must be the careful one…and don't you get fed up with the way you continually glutton upon blood?" she continues, sighing as the ribbon refuses to tie itself in her hair.

He is behind her in a flash, tightening the ribbon around the perfectly curled locks at the back of her head. "Oh, but gluttony is a sin only to those religious souls – and for I am not, I fear no repercussions for ensuring that I am equipped for a few days if we have to make a quick getaway," he smiles as he returns to his studies.

"And how many times of those have been because of you and your foolishness?" she sighs, trying and failing to count all the times they have had to leave due to his incessant feeding on every human who comes near - not out of need, but simple desire. "And how many due to me?"

He smiles once again, almost knowingly, and shakes his head ever so slightly, picking up his quill once again. "Oh but your time shall come, Amelie," he informs her, "Mark my words, it shall come."

.

She arrives in the main hall three minutes before the King is due to arrive and instantly spots the man she desires: his scent is already burned into her brain, ever more than she even realised formerly, and every time he has moved, she can smell it stronger than everything else in the room combined.

His hair is exactly as it was the other night, dishevelled yet in a way that makes her think that it is more endearing than not…unfortunately, she can see three other women near to him, all evidently clamouring for his affections. And the only thing that runs through her head is: what if he prefers them to me?

She doesn't know how beautiful she is, how captivating she is to every man who lays eyes on her: the shimmering beauty of her curled hair mesmerizes everyone who sees it; her heart shaped face draws in the viewers to imagine holding it between their hands; the petite state of her body makes everyone feel she is vulnerable and needs protecting – little do they know that she is the most dangerous thing in the room.

Tentatively beginning to approach him, she avoids many of the men who she has no interest in talking to, and her more winding path seems to capture the attention of the man she desires to speak to. In fact, as she nears him, he entirely ceases the conversation with the women, instead turning to face her entirely, with his face wide open with evident happiness that she is here.

"My Marquess," he greets her formally and she realises that he has as much knowledge of her first name as she has of his. She tried to find out during the intervening week yet failed, nobody having any interest in the identity of the young (and apparently "ugly") heir to the least desired portion of England.

"And my Lord," she curtseys to him as he bows, their eyes locking together as she forgets the entire room but him, cannot see another soul but him – he's her everything right now. She doesn't know how she can feel this strange _need_ for someone other than Myrnin, someone she has known and needed for so many years now, especially since she has known him for merely one night, yet she does.

And that's all she _really_ needs to know.

"Would you care to-" he begins to talk but is cut off as the King strides across the room, having arrived sometime when they were captivated by one another, and interrupts the pair of them.

"Sire," they both chorus in tandem, looking at the King with the appropriate level of respect, yet the Lord's seemingly not enough for Henry, who looks disdainfully at him.

"Name?" Henry barks, evidently not recognising the new Lord of Yorkshire.

"Samuel, Lord of Yorkshire," he introduces himself and Amelie can only smile as she _finally_ learns his first name – Samuel. It's so befitting to him, she decides, so utterly him that it's almost impossible for him to have been named anything else in her mind. From now on, he has always been a Samuel to her.

The king, her "brother", turns to her with a small smile as he steps aside to reveal a strikingly beautiful girl who looks directly at Samuel. "Excuse me, my sister, yet I must introduce the young Lord to his betrothed," he looks almost vindictively happy at the same time as Amelie's heart sinks to the lowest it has been in over one thousand years.

Betrothed…he never mentioned that to her during the entire night of dancing, never mentioned it when he was accusing her of plotting to be the king's mistress – he was happy to play the preacher when it suited him, yet not reveal the fact that she could never marry him, that she was dreaming impossible dreams. No, she was imagining thoughts that could never occur, never be able to run away with him…not that it _could_ in reality, yet to know there is never to be the capability of her thoughts occurring is heart breaking.

"Ahh," is all she can manage, refusing to look back into the eyes of the man she can no longer have. Instead, she turns her attention to the woman who is replacing her, so to speak, the woman who she can only feel inferior in comparison to. She recognises her, of course she does; she's the cousin of Henry, the girl sent to France to learn elocution and manners – though, admittedly, Amelie _does_ have those – and having only just returned.

"Yes," is all Samuel can say, his voice seeming lower than before, more melancholy contained within it. "Hello, Madeline," he greets the young girl – younger than Amelie is physically – without a trace of joy in his tone.

"Samuel," is her response, almost, but not quite, as unenthusiastic. The only thing that Amelie dares to hope – then quashes instantly – is that she, too, is with another and that this betrothal is neither of their wishes.

"Very well, Amelie and myself shall leave the pair of you to converse, shall we not?" the king directs this to the woman who continues to stand silent in shock. Slowly but surely, she nods, lifting her gaze from the floor to meet with Samuel's eyes for less than a second before looking away once again.

"Why yes, we will," she agrees instantly, lifting her skirts as she begins to walk away with the king, cursing him internally for introducing the pair of betrothed people together – if she had had…no, she wouldn't.

She would _never_ split a couple up.

"My sister, you must understand that they have been betrothed for this moment since infancy," Henry says to her, yet she is barely listening, instead focused in on the entirely uninteresting conversation ensuing between the pair behind them. "I care nought for the Lord of _Yorkshire_, for the issues my family have had with them, yet I implore you not to become involved with him," he continues, most likely attempting to offer his opinion in advice form.

"Yes, I shall not," she murmurs dreamily, already breaking her promise to herself not to think of him any longer – she can't help it. He's what she would call the man she desires to be with forever, the man who is perfect for her, even if she _is_ a vampire damned for hell and he betrothed.

"That is a wise move, sister," Henry finishes before moving away and most likely forgetting the entire conversation. As soon as he is away, Amelie turns back to observe the new couple together on the slightly raised area of the hall, trying and failing to prevent herself from listening to the conversation.

He's angry with her for returning from France right now – she wasn't supposed to come back until he had found himself a suitable replacement for a wife and herself a husband. Yet she says that she was ordered back urgently by Henry for reasons unknown.

The girl, Madeline, storms off after Samuel says something that Amelie misses, something, however, that instantly raises her hopes for herself and Samuel – even though it is so, _so_ wrong – which is raised even more when he begins to walk in her direction.

Somehow, he reaches her without anyone noticing them, reaches her and grabs her hand without anyone spotting the proximity between them. She ought to be fuming with him, refuse to go anywhere with someone who is no longer available to her, yet she can't help her feet moving along with his. The usual fight or flight feeling she gets when she touches a human continues to repudiate appearing when she is with Samuel, something for which she is thankful for how else could she contemplate spending more than a second with him, more than a second with his skin upon hers?

They stride purposefully into one of the smallest alcoves in the hall, the one the furthest away from the main party, and she lightly slaps him (light for a vampire) across the cheek for his untruths. "You never told me about her," she hisses in explanation, her eyes betraying her anger that seems to rise to the surface all of a sudden.

He blinks once, and then twice, before nodding slowly and taking a step closer – if possible – to the blonde beauty in front of him. "She was supposed to be in France for another three years, during which time she was to marry in order to break our betrothal, for it had a clause placed in it to do with the French…I forget the details," he waves this off, yet she already begins to get annoyed with his explanation.

"Clause with the French?" she inquires, wondering if she can use this to her advantage.

He takes her hand in his once again and, like before, she is powerless to stop him touching her, powerless to feel anything other than desire for someone she ought to be running from. He could destroy her, could ruin everything she has ever worked for, yet she cannot see that now he is before her; Samuel is _hers_, not that of Madeline.

She cannot _not_ have him.

"If either of us were to marry a French person, we would be exempted from the betrothal," he explains sadly, "And yet that is now not going to happen, for she has returned…I must marry her, though I…forgive me for if I sound too forward so quickly, Amelie, yet I know already that I desire to marry _you_," the anguish in his voice brings her close to tears, a state she has not known for many centuries.

"I have a solution," she whispers, allowing the accent of her birthright into her voice to replace the strong London accent she acquired throughout the years. "Je suis français, Samuel, je suis née dans la France, so it is possible for us to marry and escape the clause," her eyes shine with the unshed tears as she waits to see his reaction to her having such a polished English accent for someone who is evidently French.

He blinks numerous times, as if trying to process what is going on. "I…how are you so fluent in English? You sound English!" he protests, unable to comprehend the way she has two utterly flawless accents.

"I moved to England when I was a _very_ small child, where I proceeded to learn English as if I were English," she lies smoothly, "However, my parents continued to converse with me in French, therefore I picked up both languages simultaneously, along with the languages of Latin, Spanish and German," she continues.

"So we can marry and escape the clause?" he picks up the gist of the matter, his eyes widening in shock and happiness that ought probably not to be there, for the short time during which they have known one another.

"Yes, we can," she agrees, her voice low and warm as she surveys his face. she is yet to kiss him, yet to even inform him that she is a vampire – which ought to be an interesting conversation, she thinks to herself – and she is already agreeing to marry him: madness! "I can marry you, Samuel, yet we must run away. We must run from the court, run from Henry, and be free in our own little world, away from the rules and whims of him," she finds her entire life goals changing within a blink of an eye, eradicating every hope and dream of being in the court for her entire life for a chance to be with this man – foolish, she knows, yet it's what she needs to do.

He leans over and kisses her suddenly, his hands pulling her into him as she loses any advantage being a vampire has over him – she's immobile as soon as he touches her, the feeling running through her entirely alien as she kisses him back.

It's indescribable what she feels, the only truly identifiable feeling being longing when he pulls away all too soon, a smile on his face. "Let's go," he whispers in her ear, leaning over to reach it. As he does, all she can smell is him, all she can smell is the blood running through his veins that entices her so…yet she won't bite the person she loves (at least she _thinks_ it's love), not yet, at least, and so she pulls away.

"Meet me at the Tower of London at midnight," she directs him, knowing the way they can go towards her secret hideout in the outskirts before making their way to her home in the north.

"Certainly," his replies as they edge out of the alcove. They walk towards the door together in a surreptitious manner, trying desperately not to be seen.

They think they're not, that they've gotten out without a soul seeing them.

They haven't.

_~x~_

She continues to smell him on her skin long after they have parted, continues to imagine his hand within hers as she runs through the deserted streets to the home where she and Myrnin live. It's going to be _her_ turn to run in the night, to compliment the dozens of times he has forced her to up and leave within less than an hour. And, better than that, it's with _Samuel_.

Bursting through the door, she begins to pack as soon as she is inside the door, shedding the cloak upon her shoulders as she prepares a small bag filled with every piece of money and jewellery she can find. Though it takes him a few moments to process what is going on, Myrnin is soon standing behind her, a bemused sigh issuing from his mouth.

"I presume we are leaving," he leans over to pick up his bag, already packed and ready to go for emergencies like this. It has everything he _needs_ – for all other items in this house are utterly for show – in it, everything else replaceable.

"Yes," is all she says in response, a smile slipping onto her lips.

"And it has something to do with the man whose scent is all over you," he continues, stating this rather than phrasing it as a question because he already knows the answer.

"Once again, yes," she smiles wider now, slipping the last ring from her stand into the bag and slipping it onto the belt around her dress. "Now are you ready to go, for I agreed to meet Samuel in just over an hour, so we must be leaving shortly," she looks around the room as she tries to decide whether or not there is anything else in here that is of value to her.

"If we have an hour, then I may as well finish this experiment to save me having to repeat it," he drops his bag on the floor and returns to the table, something Amelie cannot argue with for what would be the point? All she has to do for an hour is to imagine the future – no matter how brief – with Samuel and how she can marry someone she _knows_ she loves.

Unable to sit still, she paces up and down as she waits for the clock to move round to one quarter to twelve, signifying the moment they must leave to make it across town to the Tower of London to be meeting her Samuel at midnight sharp. Each swipe of Myrnin's knife over the slice of meat – for what purpose, she has no idea – has her shudder slightly as it almost interrupts her memories of those fleeting moments, the moments – no matter how hasty – that made her mind up about fleeing with him, fleeing with someone she barely knows.

She waits and waits, feeling as if time is against her because it is moving _so slowly_! She can't help feeling as if everything is against her – even if she _has_ found the person she hopes is her soul mate – because _time won't speed up_.

"Pacing shall only make it seem longer, Amelie," Myrnin's dry voice interrupts her thoughts of attacking the wall to simply do _something_. "And you know that I will not be happy if you disturb my concentration, so please do _not_ continue," he smiles ever so slightly as the scowl appears on her face for less than a second before disappearing.

She doesn't bother to respond, simply smiles even wider if this is possible – it's the happiest she can remember feeling in a long time, the happiest and almost calmest (for she knows he will be there) moment that stands out in her mind as her state of being, even though she knows the best is yet to come…or so she hopes.

.

They leave three minutes later than she wanted to, Myrnin having forgotten one of the books he 'needs' because he hasn't read it yet and then being unable to find it. As he had wasted time, she calculated whether she could run any faster, just to get to him on time, so he knows she is coming.

But they _finally_ leave, Amelie putting her hood up as she runs, leaving Myrnin trailing in her wake with his many bags. Her eyes strain forwards as she tries to make out the as yet missing Tower of London, slipping through the shadows to avoid the possibility of prying eyes spying her. She's invisible to all but the man running through the streets behind her, mumbling about how inconvenient this move is.

She approaches the huge building at four minutes past midnight, four minutes too late for her to be happy – but there he is! She can see him right in front of her, just three hundred metres in front, his vibrant red hair standing out to her in particular, along with his utterly handsome face.

She's about to cry out his name, to tell him that she's coming, when Myrnin zooms forwards and throws her into the wall, stopping her advancing. She's about to yell at him, to fight him off when he places a finger over his lips and motions towards the Tower…where something that makes her want to scream is happening.

The yell of agony issuing from his mouth has her stopping resisting Myrnin's grasp on her, has her falling down to meet the hard ground without a second's delay – she can only see him, see the pain on his face as he twists and writhes on the floor, a huge pool of his blood circling him.

She can't tell what's happened to him at first, not until the mob of attackers – _why_ have they attacked him?- move away and she sees a knife glistening with a crimson substance.

Blood.

One of their hoods fall as she screams silently, conscious enough that she must remain quiet to stop her presence being noticed, and it's another noble – _Henry_ has ordered Samuel killed, she can tell instantly. Why else would they be here, four nobles entirely on the side of Henry, if not to operate on his orders, especially when the King had just brought Madeline back?

_Finally_, though it's only a few seconds later, they run away through the streets in directions Amelie can't even begin to comprehend – it's a bad dream, she decides, it's all a bad dream. She's imagining the murder of her new love, imagining it even as Myrnin releases her from his grasp to allow her to run to the man lying on the floor.

She can't tell if she moves or not: all she knows is that one second she is lying on the floor in a growing agony and then the next, she is kneeling before Samuel and cradling his head in her arms.

His eyes roll back slightly to see her, the blood spreading from him even more yet not bothering her because it's the man she wants to survive, the one man she needs in her life now – he's dying.

Tears drip down her cheeks as she strokes his face softly, murmuring words to him that make no sense to her muted ears because all she can hear is the slowing of his heart, the way that his breath is becoming shallower and shallower.

"I…love…you," he whispers, his eyes locked into hers. She can read everything in there for the first time since they met; she's unravelled the mystery that is Samuel already, something that wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to have months, years, to find out what he's like underneath – that was the point of all this! and yet now, she can read him: he's even more perfect inside than she ever could have imagined, thoughtful, kind, selfless – everything about him is revealed.

And then it's gone.

His eyes cloud over as his heart stops, his breathing ceasing as the window into his soul is closed – forever.

"NO!" she shrieks too loudly, so loudly that commotion begins in the nearby houses – there's someone out there, she can hear them yelling, someone who could be causing problems.

She has to get away, she knows, but she doesn't want to leave him alone, leave him lying there, dead from such a violent and unnecessary death. Myrnin is informing her of things she doesn't want to know – doesn't care about in the slightest – but she's aware of him pulling her to her feet, aware of him removing Samuel from her arms and lying him out on the ground.

She's aware of him pulling her away with him.

Everything's cloudy with tears, everything distorted in both her eyes and ears as she turns back to look at the utterly perfect body of the man lying on the ground, his skin as pale as hers. She never had to tell him that she is a vampire, she realises with a laugh that is bordering on manic, she never had to possibly destroy their relationship.

She's thankful for this.

They turn a corner and she's suddenly forced to look away from the man she _knows_ she loves, look away from the man who she will _never_ forget for as long as she lives.

She untangled him, read into his soul even if it was sooner than she desired it to be. He was _her's_ and nobody else's – and that she is confident will be fact forever more.

_~x~_

She sinks lower and lower into depression as the years go past, the idea that she will forget about him as Myrnin thought not working. She drains humans whenever she feeds now, rather than being clean as she once was, because it's the only way to make her feel in control of how she is. It's the only way for her to think that she has even a semblance of power over her own life, the only decision she can actively take.

He's debated about sending her away to America for years, not wanting her to be hurting any longer – perhaps, he thinks, the freedom the new country has can allow her to forget about the past miseries her home for centuries has brought to her.

It pains him to see her like this, almost having forgotten who she is, having left herself in 1514 when Samuel died. News of what occurred afterwards was sparse at best, snippets here and there until they found someone who was part of the procession of his burial: Henry claimed that some vagrant had stabbed him for his money, which was stolen, yet Myrnin knows different. He heard what Amelie could not that night through her grief, heard the murmured "Henry said that you knew what would happen if you disobeyed him," from one of the nobles who stabbed the man who could have made Amelie so happy.

Instead, he made her miserable.

.

One rainy winter afternoon in 1702, nearly two centuries after the moment that destroyed his Amelie, he decides to approach the subject. England isn't right for her, not in the most northerly point possible, neither reliving the moment in London.

She's just not supposed to be in England any longer.

He brings her a pot of tea, as he does every morning, and waits for the vacant expression to shift from her face for but a moment – somehow, he knows that it is only the memory of Samuel that drives her to stay like this; he knows that she isn't still depressed over the actual death of him, just the idea she _should_ be.

"How are you this morning, Amelie?" he asks her, wondering when the moments that she is herself – admittedly becoming more numerous throughout the years – will strike once again. Yet she doesn't respond. "I am well, thank you for asking. And today I have plans to finish reading the book I mentioned to you yesterday, about quantum physics, as well as then assisting you with your packing, for you are booked aboard the ship setting sail from England to America this evening," as he suspected, this gets her interest, having her turn back from staring into nothing into staring at him.

Her eyes narrow as she tries to process whether he is simply being humorous, the lack of laughter evidently making her mind up that he _is_ being serious.

"And what makes you think I _want_ to go to America?" she asks him, her voice hard as she stares at him intently – for the first _proper_ time, she is back. For the first time since it happened, he can't see a trace of regret or desire in her face, simply just Amelie.

It's refreshing.

"You need not say that you need to leave the country, Amelie, and the chance to explore a new land _has_ to be of interest to you, has it not?" he smiles as he sits down opposite her.

"I do suppose you are right," she muses this thought, the expression on her face remaining the same as before, much to Myrnin's delight. "Though I do not like the way you have booked this for me, I admit that this _is_ the time for a change. Are you accompanying me?" she continues, her head shooting up from the china teapot to look at him intently.

"No," he tells her honestly, deciding to give all the facts now. "America is yet to be as advanced as we are here in terms of scientific development. Only when you are confident that I will be able to advance my knowledge there will I come."

She nods thoughtfully, her face dropping slightly yet not to the point where he is becoming worried. "How long have you had this booked?" she requests this of him, wondering whether he has just decided to send her to America or whether it has been a long time coming.

"I booked you on _this_ ship three months ago," he, once again, is honest. "You have already missed four crossings, for I didn't feel you were ready to leave."

"But you do now?" her eyebrow lifts slightly as she looks at him with an almost sarcastic undertone to her voice.

"You've been ready for decades, Amelie, I just didn't want to push you," he tells her softly, his lilting voice marking him as Welsh even centuries after leaving his birth country. "Yet I know now that to mollycoddle you much longer will have you lose the strong person you are underneath. Samuel would not have wanted this of you, though I would hardly imagine he to have expected you to be alive in this century," he injects a small amount of humour as he brings up the Taboo subject, yet she only smiles wanly.

"I suppose you are right," she agrees slowly, standing up. "I shall miss you, friend. After all, I do not know where I would be right now without your support and guidance. You shall be missed," and she finds herself hugging him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she wonders what she'll do without him.

But, as they stand together, he knows that she'll be fine.

After all, she's _Amelie_.

.

He watches as the ship sails into the distance, moving to become one with the ebony ocean and sky, even to his vampire aided eyes. She's gone; he is now alone in England without his one friend in this world.

_Excellent_.

_~x~_

The years pass and she continues in the same manner as she was in when she left England: back to her old self, before Samuel. Various things occur during the two and a half centuries between the moment she arrived in the country and the moment where they are in, not all of them good, yet she's become her own person. She's reinvented herself since England, since Samuel, and she's in control of _everything_ once again.

She hasn't thought about Samuel since before Morganville was formed, a sign to her that she has moved on from him – at least on the surface. Deep down, she continues to be scared to allow herself to think about whether or not she continues to be treading water or actually have dealt with the past.

It's 1953 now and the world is very different to the past, not only in the realms of technology and communication, but also the _people_. The humans are more outgoing, brash and bold with their decisions and the vampires are all in one place…and Myrnin.

He's her deepest regret, that _he_ has to suffer the worst with the disease that is destroying them all. He's the one that makes her fight on towards harmony in this town until the vampires are cured, the one that makes her think why she needs to do it when the day is particularly stressful. The regret for what she would call a loss of life is continued onto her today, where she has to approach a young widower with a child in regards to the loss of his wife.

It's a task that she always takes on, no matter how frequent it must be, when an innocent human dies in Morganville. She always comforts the widow or widower, failing that the nearest relative, and it's never been an issue so far: she knows how to react to them, how to reassure them as much as she can that they are going to get through it, because she has – and she's different, _better_(?) because of it. Better she may not be, yet she knows that she is nearly the exact opposite to how she was before.

She knocks on the door to the home she once lived in and waits for Samuel – not _her_ Samuel, another – Glass to answer the door. She's never met him, even with the loss of his parents within the past three or four years, and she can't really say that she knows much of him, besides that he has suffered a tragedy in his life, the loss of his wife. He was a good student in school, not getting into trouble that would have brought him under her radar, and even in college he never caught her eye. She's never even see a photograph of him.

She's entirely unprepared for what she finds.

The door opens and it's all she can do not to either run as far as possible or to embrace him, because it's _Samuel_, her Samuel! He…he's here, in her town, with a baby, and she can't think past the fact that he's the man she loved.

The man before her has the same copper tinged hair that stands up randomly, the same face that makes her simply desire to touch it and, most importantly, the exact shape and colour of his eyes.

And, like with Samuel in the past, she can't read everything about him.

"Who are you?" he breaks the silence caused by her staring at him in shock, grief evident on his face.

I'm _Amelie_, she wants to say, as if he ought to know, but the indescribable warm glow in her chest fades to a minimal point as she realises something.

He's not her Samuel.

They're carbon copies, something she is absolutely certain about, but it _can't_ be her Samuel because he was English. More than that, though she regrets it, he _died_ – and this man is very much alive.

"My name is Amelie, your Founder," is how she manages to introduce herself, unable to say anything more or less to the largest shock of her life thus far. She never knew it would be possible to have a direct replica of the man she loved in her life, never thought she would have to relive him…but…no, no, she can't think like that.

She can't replace him with _this one_.

Or can she?

The expression on the man's – as yet, she cannot call him Samuel – face doesn't alter one bit as he processes the identity of the woman standing on his doorstep. He doesn't react to the fact that this is the woman who provides his Protection, the woman he signed himself to – and continues to wear her bracelet – without even seeing her, and simply moves aside to allow her into his home without a word.

Once inside, she can already see the differences – no matter how hard she tries not to – between the Samuel of her past and the Samuel in her present. He's more homely, she decides, for he married and had a son; _her_ Samuel didn't. _She_ was supposed to be her Samuel's wife.

It just never worked out.

He waits for her to talk, waits for her to tell him her purpose of being in his home, when she begins to wistfully speak. "I remember living in this house," she begins, not starting with offering her condolences but instead with herseld. With the shock she had, she can hardly be blamed. "It was nearly as it is now, with only minor changes. Life appears to present itself to us like that...it appears to attempt to decieve us so that we are under the impression that when we are wronged, we cannot move on.

"That is a lie. Life can change, present different opportunities and have yourself wondering if you ever cried over the wrong thing. And I am confident that you will find this yourself..." each time she has the opportunity to name him, she is silent, not yet having the capability to name someone identical to him Samuel.

He reminds her too much of the past, has her remembering the thoughts that she had believed were quashed below the possibility of ever resurfacing. They may have had but days together – if their time together could be counted with the days they had apart – yet those days have been locked away as the epitome of a good event in her life.

She wants to leave, to run out of there right now, to keep the memories of her past in the back of her mind, never to be observed again – yet never to be forgotten either. She wishes she never came, that she never bothered to wish her condolences because it would have allowed her to continue this painless existence she has had for centuries now.

"I must leave," she says suddenly, her voice low and almost inaudible in the room. She rises to her feet and doesn't wait for a word from him as she walks towards the door, having no desire to stay here any longer especially when he hasn't even protested her departure.

"Bull," as she begins to turn the handle on the door, she hears the soft uttering of the swear word from the man she is already trying to forget. "How the _hell_ do you know _anything_ about heartbreak? What makes you think that that reel of utter _rubbish_ you have just spouted off will make me feel any better?" he's angry and, for the first time, she can actually realise that he's not the same person as her Samuel.

But could he be better?

She whirls around to face him, both relief and fury on her face: relief that this _isn't_ probably her Samuel (no matter how much he looks like him) but anger that he dare speak to her this way.

Yet she takes a deep breath and controls herself, knowing that harm can _never_ come to this man, if only for the past. And…and perhaps for the future – for how can she bear to let him slip through her fingers _again_, even if he is different, more forceful?

"I know it is the truth because I lost the person I loved the most for the shortest period of time in a violent, sudden manner as well," she speaks softly, her eyes distant as she fights to stop herself returning to 1514, stop herself returning to the day that _he_…that Samuel died. "You are not the only one, Samuel, to have loved someone with such intensity for such a brief amount of time that it hurts to be in the world in which they left."

He blinks as he looks at the suddenly fragile woman, wondering if he has imagined the transformation within the woman standing before him. At first she was stronger than he thought even a vampire could be, composed even as she faced him, yet now…now he can't see the same woman. She's vulnerable, fragile, sensitive and, above all, she doesn't have a perfect past.

For the first time since he has met her, he softens towards her, wondering if she may not be _all_ bad; he was brought up to, in secret, hate the woman who keeps them all in Morganville like cattle, taught to desire the destruction of the vampires with all his heart, taught that the woman who forces them here is the evillest, most vindictive woman there could be on the planet. But he thinks she's not, not now he's seen she has another side to her.

Because she's loved someone. And when you've loved someone, you can never be _wholly_ bad.

"I apologise," he says in a slightly stiff voice for he isn't used to apologising to vampires, not when he can help it.

She looks up from the floor and smiles ever so slightly, watching as the anger drains from his face and leaves only her Samuel from the past. He's more than someone with a resemblance in both looks and what she's learnt of his personality thus far…

He's a reincarnation.

"Accepted," she returns to her brisk, cool self, yet she knows that she's let her pain (and therefore her true personality) through and that this could be the most dangerous thing she has ever done. "Now, I must-"

He cuts her off, his head turning back to the far corner where the crib is. "Since you're here…would you like to meet Steven?" he diverts the subject entirely from anywhere it has been in the entire conversation, including the revelation as to the similarities between the Samuels.

She hesitates, unable to decide between "protocol" and what she wants to do – and she wants to see the baby. She's had a certain kinship with children for her entire life…and here's a chance to imagine what life could have possibly have brought her in the past.

"Of course, that would be most pleasant," she smiles and nods slowly, releasing her hold on the doorknob to walk back into the main part of the re-christened Glass House.

It's the beginning of a beautiful thing.

_~x~_

It's…_peculiar_, she decides is the term to describe her life; as she _technically_ gets further away from the humans and from Samuel – no matter how much he presses for Sam, for the Tudor Samuel (as _both_ of them are "her" Samuel now) she continues to call him Samuel - she feels as if she is getting closer to him.

The weeks turn into months which, in turn, turn into years, and she still cannot release Samuel. She's more than confused as time passes, the initial shock over her Samuel being back changing into simple happiness that she has perhaps another chance to relive what she could have had – true, there are notable differences, yet why would she complain? She has her Samuel…and that's all that matters.

He's fragile and she needs to remember that no matter how much she desires it, he is _not_ Samuel, Lord of Yorkshire – he is Samuel Glass, a human resident of her town and who belongs to her. Yet, tentatively, she decides to reach out to him, to spend time in his company to try and heal her heart wholly, to finally relinquish the man who died more than half a millennia ago for the new version.

She knocks on the door and waits for him to answer the door, which he does promptly. It's been two years, nine months and fourteen days since they first met, and she can't actually remember the last time she confused the old Samuel with this one.

He's entirely himself, and she realises that she never should have compared him to the old Samuel because they're so utterly different – they have the same appearance, the same personality in terms of their kindness, yet this man has his own fire, the fire that she has seen in so many people yet appreciated in so few.

He's one of the few that she appreciates it in.

"Amelie," he opens the door to her and she can't help but smiling as she enters, shutting part of her mind off to herself as she enters his presence once again. She may adore these hours every few days with him, crave his time when they are busy apart, yet that doesn't mean that she has recovered enough to allow herself to occupy the void in her heart with another. Not consciously, at least.

"Where is Steven?" he's one of the highlights of her trips here, the thing that is one of the things that make her smile involuntarily, his adorability something that can always make her smile.

"In the back room," Sam tells her, getting distracted with the meal he's cooking her to make sure that it's absolutely perfect. She can hear this in his voice and walks off, not bothering to distract him any longer…just like he always wants.

.

He doesn't know what has changed between them in the near three years between their meeting and now, but he knows _he_ has changed. He's the first person to admit that he was a mess when they met…but she was too.

As she helped him to realise that he didn't need the memory of Melinda anymore, that he may have been thankful for their time together but he didn't feel the burning desire for her after a few months, he realised that she was slowly healing as well. It wasn't an obvious change in her, not whatsoever; he could only see in the few moments that she let her armour down at first that she was becoming more stable. And then, when she had spent enough time with him, the armour came down entirely and she seemed almost healed – _seems_ almost healed. Yet he can tell that she's holding back form something…something which he hopes is the same thing as how he feels about her.

He loves her.

It's a deep and meaningful love, one that built over time rather than appearing instantly. He knows that it's made him be in this situation for the long run, made sure that he knows that he can't live without her – he can tell this from the way his heart aches for her whenever she isn't around, from the way he just keeps waiting for her to say something with the _slightest_ hint that she has feelings for him before he will pounce on her instantly.

He knows it wasn't like this with Melinda, that whilst they were in love, she wasn't his soul mate…no, that's Amelie.

.

Her heart knows that Sam is the one for her, that he replaced the past feelings a long time ago, yet her brain refuses to contemplate the feelings of love she has. She shuts off to them, putting a block up to ensure that she is never overcome by them, will never verbally show them to a single soul. She loves Sam…but she'll never show it.

Part of her wants to call him Sam, yet the rest of her is unable to, having associated the physical form of him with the other Samuel for so long meaning the pattern is unable to be broken. So he continues to be Samuel, Samuel Glass, the only human who is worthy of her time – the only body, human or vampire, she will spend time with – besides for Myrnin. And there is another reason to stop herself from allowing herself to feel anything: she is going to die. Unless there is a cure found, and every week that passes makes it seem every the more unlikely, she will lose herself in the coming century.

How can she subject someone else to that torment of losing a loved one – and for the second time – if she can prevent it?

So she doesn't say a word about anything, simply plays with Steven whilst Samuel cooks, and because she says nothing, he presumes there's nothing there. She keeps a barrier up within herself.

Until the point where she can't remember whether it's real or not.

_~x~_

Then things are destroyed for the first time.

_~x~_

She leaves earlier than normal that night and it's what stops her from being right on the front line when things start happening. Normally, she would stay until nearly midnight, yet tonight, she leaves a good three hours early, around the nine pm mark. She can't stay any longer; it's getting harder and harder to keep this wall up inside of her when she's with him for prolonged periods of time: the cold and isolated state of her home the only thing that can bring it back to full strength. She doesn't _want_ to think about love and whether or not she has it for _anyone_, so work is her solitude – or it is, however, until the longing for Samuel begins once again.

She's locked away in her office when the phone rings in his house, something he hurries to answer before it wakes Steven. "Hello?" he answers the phone, listening to the information he gathers in the few seconds he's on the phone. There's a situation: Edgar Bryan has gone crazy and taken hostages into the back room of the local pub, the only one which is allows human punters in at night, at their own risk.

And Sam's the only one who can save them.

The police haven't arrived yet – in fact, they haven't even been called yet – but Sam is the first port of call; he's got a reputation for dealing with the crazies in Morganville…and crazy isn't something Morganville is short on. It's an unknown reason why he got this title, yet it's what has him being called out to the pub late at night, him being the one that they think Edgar will listen to.

"I'll just get my neighbour to watch my son and then I'll be down," he tells the person on the phone, already reaching out for his jacket. With a glance back at the stairs as if to make sure that Steven isn't trying to crawl down them, he runs out of the house and bangs on next door's door, explaining the situation as they agree to take him on for the night.

And then he's off.

He decides to run to the pub as it's not too far away, knowing that the bracelet on his wrist almost sets a radius around him in which vampires aren't to go – or, rather, they're too scared of the wrath of the woman who owns him. So he's ignored as he runs down street after street, taking shortcuts he would have only taken in the day before as he reaches the outside of the pub. It's bedlam, utter bedlam, with all the people in the pub running out and down the street to get away from the man with the knife, preferring the risk of vampires to being hurt by 'one of their own'.

"Where is he?" Sam asks the one man remaining inside the pub, his face drawn and white as he listens to the screams issuing from the room in the back, the noise that answers Sam's question.

"There," as if to clarify, the man points towards the door in the back corner of the room, the sounds making Sam want to turn and run as far away as possible.

Then he remembers that Edgar will die if he doesn't at least _try_ to help, that he could get the hostages out safely…they could be anyone and he's going to get them out.

And then there's the loudest scream yet.

He recognises the sound of the woman screaming for help without a doubt – it's Marion, one of the youngest vampires in town. She's screaming and pleading, sounds that make Sam want to retch but attack Edgar at the same time – she's barely more than one of them – before the silence takes over as the most prominent thing. She's dead, he's sure of it, and it makes him sure that Edgar will die…but the others don't have to die with him.

As he contemplates the way that Edgar will die, his thoughts drift to Amelie for a second. He knows that this being a major incident, she'll be coming down – and how will she react to him being around in public? Will she tell everyone how she feels…or will she pretend as if she almost doesn't know him? But that's not the pressing matter at the minute: the pressing matter is to get the people out safe and sound, without fail.

"Edgar?" he approaches the door and calls his name through loudly, hearing the sound of wailing sirens in the background – someone evidently called the police. "It's Sam, you know, Sam Glass. Can we talk?"

_~x~_

Three or four hours later, he's just about got the fifth and final hostage – alive, at least – out of the room when she arrives. He didn't expect her right now since she didn't arrive earlier, when there was the diciest moment as hostage number three was released, but here she is and she looks _fantastic_.

He gets distracted for a moment as he catches sight of her blonde hair catching the light as she walks past one of the electric lights on low, almost forgetting to tell Edgar that everything will be alright – or as alright as it can be for a vampire murderer.

_Finally_, the door is opened and the girl runs out into the arms of one of the police officers nearby – and the final obstacle is Edgar. Sam refocuses, forgetting Amelie entirely as he pushes for a relatively bloodless result, trying to get to the end of this without another death…chance would be a fine thing in Morganville.

.

The door opens half an hour later, the knife still in Edgar's hand as he begins to slowly walk out. He doesn't know that Amelie is here, that the head vampire is in the room, and Sam deliberately left that out in their negotiations for him to come out – negotiations that shall mean nothing as soon as the vampires get their hands on him, but he had to lie.

Didn't he?

Her movement in the corner catches his eye and he frowns, wondering if she is _trying_ to make him go crazy again by drawing attention to herself. Yet as he looks at her, he catches sight of her gazing at him, her eyes almost smiling at him whilst her expression remains plainly grim. Her eyes dance like the stars in the sky, a similar colour for her grey to be compared to the stars millions of miles away. She's sometimes, like tonight, as far away from him as they are from Earth, yet sometimes she's closer than the moon.

"Edgar," she makes the mistake of speaking, just as the knife is about to get placed on the floor, and the crazy man springs into action again. Sam can't help but groan, realising that he could be a new target for Edgar, especially since he's standing _relatively_ close to Amelie that it shows he's an ally of her's.

"You…" he trails off, spluttering incoherently as he begins to lunge for her. He moves closer and closer in the few seconds he can get there, almost reaching her – and as he gets closer, so does Sam.

He can't help himself; the knife plus Amelie is a situation he can't be in again, losing the woman he loves. The logical side of his brain reminds him that Amelie is thousands of times stronger than Edgar or Marion, that she can decimate him in a second, yet this rationality is overpowered by the fear that she could die.

So he jumps.

He's close enough to Edgar to see the beads of sweat on his brow as he thrusts the knife forwards, the crazed edge in his eyes showing he doesn't even recognise that he's not attacking Amelie. All he's doing is attacking_ someone_ on her side_…_and that's good enough for Edgar.

It's not enough for Sam.

The knife goes in, perforating his skin with ease and making it through who knows how many internal organs. There's not a word to describe the scream that issues out of his mouth, not a way to describe the intense agony in his eyes as the blood begins to pour out instantly. Yet the relief is evident in his eyes, the relief that his sacrifice has meant that _she_ isn't dead – no, for once, he's sacrificing himself for another.

.

She can't comprehend what's going on: she saw the crazed man running in their direction and was beginning to prepare for him, able to take her time because even if he _did_ stab her, she wouldn't be injured. But no…no, all of a sudden, her knight in shining armour – almost literally – leaps in front of her.

And he takes the fall for her.

Her ears want to close up as she wants to run, run as far away from the fact that it's happening _again_, that she's losing her Samuel for the second time. It's more than she can bear: she thought that she would have a life with this man, that she would be able to spend time with him for longer. The shock forces any barriers down and she can't help but feel that she _loves_ him, that she would do anything for him.

And now he's leaving her.

He falls and she catches him without a second's hesitation, his body fitting snugly into her arms. It's too early to be finding this out; she wants years and years with him, years and years for her to feel his skin beneath hers, for her to tell him that she loves him more than the past love she has had – even that she simply _loves_ him.

"Stay with me," she whispers as her fingers begin to stroke his face without her realising, the smell of his blood not bothering her at all. The sound of her voice seems to rouse him slightly from the stupor he is already falling into, draws his eyes up to hers hungrily as he tries to devour her face.

Once again, it's happening.

She can't help herself from crying as the love of her life – the _true_ one this time, not any shadows – dies in her arms, each second drawing out more of his hidden emotions from inside himself: she doesn't want to look, doesn't want to accept that this is the last few minutes of his life on the earth because it reminds her too much of the other one and how she held him also.

He sees her tears and tries to reach up to wipe them away, an almost content smile sliding onto his lips: he knows she loves him. he knows that she loves him back and she can tell that from his eyes – he's never not loved her, she realises, and she can never go back to a time pre-Samuel Glass either. She can't remember feeling more complete than this moment, when he is dy- no, he doesn't have to.

Her selfish side comes out as she learns almost all his secrets, as she watches the slight clouding over on his eyes that shows he is closer to death than ever before. The blood flow begins to stench simply because he's running out of it but she knows that she has to do this if he is to stay alive for Steven – because how can she stay with him now that everyone in the room knows that she loves him?

But that's a problem for later: firstly she has to save him.

And, with a bite of her wrist which is lowered to his mouth, she does.

_~x~_

He can't believe that she loves him back, that she is spending time with him as he begins to realise that he's a vampire. It's the most brilliant feeling in the world, he decides, that the woman loves him back, that his love hasn't been futile for almost three years.

But then the black clouds begin to descend on his happiness – and she's the one who is blamed.

He can't help it, can't help but blame her because she turned him into the thing he has always hated the most – even the love he has for her can't override the grief he has for the lost humanity.

And, by the time that he comes round, she's gone.

.

She doesn't _want_ to leave him: the days where she is with him, even when he insists he hates her first and foremost, she is with him. That's enough for her: having his company is the thing that makes her forget all the other issues in the town, makes her forget the damage limitation that is going on after the issue in the pub. She can't imagine being happier, even if the disease is cured: if she has a short time remaining, she'd prefer it to be with someone she loves more than anything.

It's the death threats that stop her.

They're not threats to her, not at all: they're worse. She begins to hear word from her staff that, outside her cosy little world of trying to help the man she loves, there are plots to kill him, or at least use him - after all, he's the closest person to her and the one that everyone knows she will do anything to protect...she turned him so he would be around for her. He's in danger because of her, an escalating scale the longer she leaves the knowledge that they love one another out in the open. There's only one solution to ensure his safety and maintain that she is the only attacked one of the pair of them.

She has to break their hearts.

He's as far away as he has been since before they realised they loved one another and this is the only reason she has the strength to act rationally to save them both. If he was with her right now, it would be impossible for her to push him away – how _could_ she leave someone if she had been selfish enough to turn him into a vampire? She couldn't: however, he's not her Samuel at the minute, which makes it easier for her to make the decision. It's not _easy_, not whatsoever, yet she can see the benefit of leaving him right now: he wouldn't be hurt. Her Samuel, the one person she doesn't want hurt in her life, will not be harmed if she leaves him. After all, she doesn't know who this person is who would want to hurt him – what if they, to hurt Samuel, which would hurt her, harmed Steven? She couldn't live with herself if the little boy was hurt to hurt Sam to hurt her.

She can barely comprehend that she is making this decision so clinically, that she is weighing up the undoubted positives against the painful decision as to leave the man she loves or not. Yet Morganville has undoubtedly changed her from who she was in the past, changed her to someone she can barely recognise. She's someone who can now deal with these situations in a much calmer and more orderly fashion than before, judging both the positives and the negatives to come to the overall best conclusion.

It doesn't mean that she has to like it.

.

That night, she decides that she has to do it, that she has to leave the man she loves for him…it's the hardest decision she has ever made, the hardest decision to leave someone _for_ them when it's not what you want.

Yet she does it. She walks into his house and finds him throwing things at the wall again, almost waiting for someone to come in to test his aim at. However, as he sees her, he stops, the jug in his hand poised ready to throw if it so happens to please him.

She's barely stopping herself crying, barely able to keep the mask of composure on her face that has lasted her so well in the past to hide her emotions. She can't let him see what's wrong with her, can't let him know that she doesn't want to do this. The only way to do it is to trick him into thinking that this is what she wants, that…that she doesn't want him.

He doesn't say a word as she stands there, doesn't make a move to show he recognises her other than moving the jug to set it back on the table. As soon as it's gone, she takes a deep breath and whispers the words, "This has been a lovely, novel experience for myself, Samuel, yet it is time for this to end."

His fist clenches and she's glad that the jug is out of his hand otherwise it would be in pieces right now. But the overriding thing is the look of absolute anguish on his face, the way that it almost seems that the is coming back to her…just to be ripped apart at the seams.

"No," he whispers back, his eyes unseeing as he stares past her almost. "No, you love me, I love _you_. You can't do this to me…not when you made me…made me _this_ just to be with me,"

She shakes her head, hating herself for every word of the lie she must tell him to get him to understand – _believe_ – that she doesn't want him anymore, wondering how long he'll take to believe her.

"You were a distraction, Samuel, one that went too far. And now…now I have plans for you, in my town. You have no ties with my people and have no desire to be tied to any, therefore that is how you shall be: alone, without vampires."

His eyes soften from the almost defiant anger coursing through him, and tears begin to slide down his cheeks. "I want…_you_," is all he can say, reaching out towards her but stopping as she edges back infinitesimally.

"I…I don't want you," is the final thing she says, her voice low and clipped as the last word hangs poignantly in the air. "Goodbye, Samuel. Don't try to contact me."

And, with the last strength in her to hold back her tears, she is gone.

_~x~_

Life remains bad for the pair of them for another fifty years, these the worst time of Amelie's entire life. In the past heartache, she had Myrnin, yet every week seems to take Myrnin further and further away from her. Things are being destroyed in Morganville as the time passes, more and more vampires being taken away for showing symptoms of the disease. It's wreaking havoc on her life, making her wish again and again that she could just give up…and he never stops trying to see her.

It's repetitive, day after day that he tries to see her, tries to show her how much he loves her – and how much he _knows_ she loves him – and yet she sends him away every time. He hasn't set eyes on her in a decade, that time from afar on the other side of the room, barely able to catch a fleeting glimpse of her. He calls her constantly, tries to see her, wants to make her realise what a, in a blunt manner, _crap_ life he's had since she left him…and for her to realise that her life could have been so much better.

She's _wanted_ to tell him how she feels, how he isn't really a social experiment, that if he _had_ gone crazed she would have helped him, yet she can't. Every time she debates it, she remembers the whispered conversations in corners, remembers the reason why she left him in the first place, and then it makes her strong again.

But it never makes it right.

He's lying in her arms again, the first time she has touched him in half a century, and he's almost dead. The grief threatens to overcome her, to be the triggering force that sets the disease off in her, yet she makes sure that she doesn't let it…because if she did, her stance to protect him would have been futile. She can't give up now.

He's staring back into her eyes and he sees the answers to the unasked questions he has harboured for her for so many years: she loves him back and she never stopped. The devotion to him is evident to him even as he struggles to breathe, the sight of the grey irises on his face studiously, waiting for him to react more than he is, it's the only thing that could keep him in this world. Not Morganville – _definitely_ not Morganville – or even his Grandson, but Amelie. She's the one who has kept him fighting all these years, the chance to ask her these questions being the thing that drove him to continue to try to get to her even as he was rebuffed time and time again. It was something he wanted, something he needed, and now he's got his answers it should be enough.

It isn't.

All it does is make him want her more, make him want to ask her _why_ she lied to him about not loving him when she never stopped. Yet now's not the right time: he can barely breathe and he needs to help her to help Morganville.

As only when everyone else is sorted will she think about him.

At least, that's what he thinks.

_~x~_

Her father returns on a Tuesday, the gloomiest day of the week…and the anniversary of the day she left him. It's the hardest day of the year for him, the day where he doesn't leave his house, doesn't do anything other than lament over what _could_ have been: what could have been if Melinda hadn't died; what could have been if he never went to the pub that night; what he and Amelie could have had if she hadn't felt the need to leave him, to scuttle away.

And it's the day she calls him.

It's the first time he has been happy to pick up the phone in so many years, the first time that it's not been entirely the most painful experience of his life, just waiting to hear the bad news. No…no, _this_ time, it's _her_ voice and it's the most magical moment that he can think of, just to hear her perfect voice addressing _him_.

"Samuel…I understand that this may be a little…out of the blue, to coin a familiar expression," she says a little hesitantly, yet all he can hear is that _Amelie _is calling him…nothing else matters. "However, if you are willing, I require your presence at my office most imminently."

He doesn't know what it could be about, doesn't have a clue whether she could be asking him to kill someone, doesn't have a _clue_, yet he agrees instantly. "I'll be over in a flash," he tells her, using the information he learned about the portals all those years ago in a way that shows her (he hopes) that he's never forgotten a thing about her.

She doesn't reply, simply hangs up which he takes as his cue to head over there, to be face to face - fully conscious – for the first time since he was staked…and the first proper time since before she left him.

.

She twists her hands together as she waits to see the man she adores more than life itself, fidgets entirely out of character for herself whilst Oliver remains deathly still in the corner. Oh how she wishes that Myrnin could be here, yet it's too dangerous – he can only come into play in the latter stages, when she is confident of success…he is able to put on appearances that he is both healthier and sicker than he actually is, she is well aware, and this could be their only salvation.

"You are acting like a lovesick child, Amelie," naturally, Oliver has to pick up on her feelings, pick up on how she can only think apprehensively for Sam's near imminent arrival.

"And you would know that because…?" she trails off deliberately, cocking an eyebrow as she surveys her second in command and general ally in this suddenly emerging war.

He doesn't respond for Sam walks through the portal at this exact moment, his eyes focused entirely on her as he tries to decipher the worried expression on her face that doesn't seem to be moving, even as she looks at him.

And then she explains.

.

The plan begins to form between the three of them, Sam taking an active role even with the lack of desire for this from Oliver and, to an extent, Amelie. It's all planned out what shall happen at the Welcoming Feast, how they shall stand against Bishop in a way that shall mark Amelie as the one and only ruler of Morganville.

He stares at her as she directs what Oliver is to write on the blackboard, watching as her decisiveness shines through as she makes _her_ plans what _she_ wants, not what Oliver thinks will work. It's part of her stubbornness that makes him love her so much, the stubbornness that makes her the one and only woman who could make him think anything about _anything_.

"So you shall do this, Samuel," she says, her voice beginning to get slightly weary after three hours of discussions. Yet he doesn't notice this, only hears the way she says his name to show that she continues to love him.

And, no matter what has been said or done, that's enough.

_~x~_

They follow the plan to the letter, yet _Myrnin_ (and Claire, naturally) gets involved and everything goes wrong. Amelie's staked and the only thing that goes through Sam's mind is whether he will lose her or not. It's an irrational thought, for she shall survive a lot longer than he would, yet he can't help but contemplate the possibility of losing her as she lies on the floor, helpless. It's the first time he has been able to do anything for her, to sit with her and hold her hand and, when nobody else was listening, tell her that he loves her.

She didn't tell him to be quiet.

And now they're preparing to go off and fight, the desire of him to stay with her overruled by both Amelie _and_ Oliver, the latter of whom orders him off to somewhere entirely not important. In a way, he can see that perhaps – _perhaps_ – it's being done for him to be safe, so he and Amelie have a chance after this war, yet it's probably more likely so that Oliver can show off to the woman that _he_ loves. Yet he stops caring after a while, simply getting on with the work in sorting the Founders Houses and the University simply so that Morganville has a chance of surviving for Amelie to run.

He's called to her via her siren call, yet he can't get there, and the entire time is spent with him theorising every way that he could help, every way that he could escape that cell just to get to Amelie. True love can never truly be shown unless it's in this way, he decides, the utter fear not for _himself_ but for Amelie, for why she needs all her troops and _he_ isn't there, and the knowledge that to live without her isn't to live at all.

.

Everything happens in the space of a few minutes, the retreating of Amelie into the distance as her Father has the upper hand with numbers and spies and the territory…he's dragged with his true love, taken from the room attached to her hand as they run to the underground bunker she has had for so many a year incase of events like this.

They're forced into the smallest space and he finds himself able to reach out and take her hand without her having to say that she can't show her love for him: after all, the way that he stood up for her in the Welcoming Feast shows the entire town that the front she has put on was a lie.

It's only for the briefest of moments that he can pretend that he is holding her hand on a pretty white bench in the park, sitting there and just watching the world go by, and then it's back to the harsh reality that they're underground and have no means to escape for however long it takes for them to plan the best plan that they can. After all, they've only got one shot.

Her eyes meet his and she smiles ever so slightly for the briefest of moments before she looks away and sighs, addressing the rest of their little group who have made it down below, to the confirmed safety.

And then she speaks.

It's like an angel talking, the voice of someone so utterly perfect, almost without flaws, and he's captivated by the tone of her voice. She sounds so calm, as if nothing has gone wrong, when, in fact, she's just lost her entire town. She's lost nearly everything and she should be so sad. Yet he realises at the same time as she turns back to look at him once more that she hasn't lost _everything_: she still has him.

_~x~_

She begins to ignore him again after a while, not wanting him in on the biggest and most dangerous plans. There's only three people allowed in to discuss those: Amelie, Oliver and Myrnin, whenever he can sneak away from his double agent role to begin the plotting to save the town. But he's determined: these could be the last weeks of their lives; it's not enough spending the fleeting moment with her, being able to hold her only if nobody is around; he has to spend every second possible in her company.

So he begins to sneak closer and closer to the meetings, reading files left on her desk that she obviously marked as secret. She can smell his scent on them, she must be able to, yet she doesn't say a word and he finds them easier and easier every time, almost as if she is _allowing_ him to prove himself to be worthy of joining the main cause.

And, finally, he is able to walk into the room where they're meeting and he's not thrown out; he can hear the discussion and, as he walks forwards, Amelie's gaze rises from some sort of potion to meet his. It's almost an accepting glance, that she doesn't want this to happen at all, yet she knows that he's so strong and determined to be with her that she can't do anything to stop it.

But it scares her: it's one thing to risk her own life against her father – it's another to risk the life of the man she loves. She can't abide the thought of anything happening to him, yet she couldn't help herself giving him what he wanted: she knew that he wanted in on this secret operation and that's what she gave him. Whatever he wants, she's almost unable to resist - in most cases.

The plan is refined when they find out Claire is a possible liaison once again, a factor able to be worked back into the plan if she's fully free of the curse put on her. Myrnin seems to think she is and continues to only listen to the fact that she is, ignoring the words of Oliver that it could be a trick. Yet Amelie ignores the talk of Claire, of a possible extra weapon – all she cares about is getting the four of them out alive, something which has the odds of near zero. Myrnin isn't going to be killed: he'll be the one that Bishop cures, Amelie is sure of it. Oliver is the safety net, the one who doesn't take the poison and simply stands there, revelling in his position as "secret double agent" for Bishop, even though he's Amelie's through and through in this war.

It's either her or Sam that is going to die because Bishop always makes an example out of someone and they are the only other possibilities. She could rope another into the equation and hope that her father will take onboard this, yet she knows she has made it blatantly obvious to him her feelings regarding the man and he will target either her to affect him, or him…or kill Sam to destroy her.

It's impossible to decide which option is the most likely; for this is Bishop, to whom flesh and blood means nothing other than that their blood tastes familiar. Either way she hopes will have them losing most drastically – and that's why she is trying to live these last days of confirmed life with him without qualm, putting into the smallest of actions every unspoken word of love she has for him – why waste the emotion of love through ineloquent words when actions and looks speak louder than them?

She smiles at him across the room and can't help but allow the melancholy feeling spread across her, regretting everything she has done for fifty years: she isn't protecting him now; perhaps she only held the inevitable off for fifty miserable years, that they would be ripped apart as true lovers always are anyway. Perhaps she simply endured those years for nothing, for this to always be the case, the loss of one of them in the end…or both.

She nods her head to something Oliver says, not hearing it because Sam is looking at her and her attention is focused entirely on the brilliance of his blue eyes, the piercing state of them that can get right into her soul, she's sure of it. She can read almost everything there, read the absolute love he has for her, and she knows that this is the closest she shall ever get to perfect love, that love shall always exist between them in the strongest of bonds, no matter the outcome.

Oliver disappears and she shoots across the room to take Sam's hand, feeling the smoothness of his skin and comparing it to the moments she touched his hand as a human. It's different yet similar, for of course there are no blemishes and the colour is so much paler, yet the texture has been maintained. And then she lifts her eyes from his hand to his face as it sinks closer to her own.

He kisses her and it's possibly one of the most magical moments of her life, the kiss seeming rushed and filled with as much passion as she has ever felt crammed into a single moment of life. It lasts almost for forever and a split second at the same time, the moment he pulls away leaving her devoid of the utter, peaceful bliss she gets to feel for a second or so.

His eyes level with hers and they're suddenly grave, deathly serious as he takes her hands in his. "I love you," he tells her, slipping one of the vials of poison from the side into her hand – it's _time_? Then she realises that she told Oliver she was ready to do this, that she had nothing else to do, and she begins to panic – they're coming already!

Her eyes roam his face frantically, trying to put across everything she has held back for so many years, yet he lifts her hands to her mouth to have her take the poison: the plan _must_ come first, above even them. Morganville is more important, she realises that he thinks, her heart heavy as her understanding of just how selfless he is reaching her at this point. He knows how much the town means to her so he's willing to put their relationship on the back burner for a second just for her to succeed.

She takes the poison and gags, falling forwards into his chest and not moving from where she lands. His arms wrap around her and he begins to murmur into her hair, tears beginning to drip down his cheeks into her blonde locks as she realises he knows that this is their goodbye. She has so many things she wants to say, how she loves it when he blushes because it makes him look even younger than he is, that the way he brushes his hair is humorous, that the love she has for him is stronger than any other feeling she has _ever_ had for another being times one million. Yet her tongue locks in her throat and, as usual, she lets him share his feelings rather than digressing her own.

And then it's too late.

They sneak into the room, though the duo know that they are coming, circling them as they expect the moment to be so entirely absorbing.

And then they attack.

Sam and Amelie don't fight back more than the pre-requited amount for it not to be suspicious, the poison already beginning to flow through their veins and around their bodies, leaving them sluggish. They get bound within seconds, their captors laughing and grinning amongst themselves as Oliver emerges – as planned – at the head of this little army, trying to show himself as the chief double agent in Morganville.

He orders them to be taken straight to the stage, aware of the fact that the sun is already beginning to set and that the poison's effectiveness shall be wearing off before midnight. This has been planned for today for weeks now, Oliver having arranged the entire town meeting for today by insinuating to Bishop that he will divulge Amelie's secret location today. And he has.

She clings tightly onto Sam's hand on the entire journey, her eyes calm and cool as she looks at him, wanting him to feel as calm as possible during this part. Oliver said he would try and ensure that Sam isn't harmed, that he won't be bound by the silver chains she knows that she will have around her – after all, as a vampire, he's a _child_, barely able to take touching silver for a short period of time. Oliver _promised_.

As they arrive, they're separated, their locked fingers prised apart as they are dragged in opposite directions. She keeps her head turned towards him for as long as possible, whispering "I love you" to him as she is forced to look away. The overwhelming sense of loss hits her then, her ears feeling as if they have been stuffed with cotton wool. It's a side effect of the poison, yet it allows her to focus on Sam and not think of anything else…it allows her to remember the good times between them and know that, no matter what happens tonight, she'll always have the memories.

.

Minutes before the public parade, she's locked into her silver chains, her dress' sleeves ripped off so as much of her skin is bare against the silver. Yet she does not scream, she does not whimper: she thinks that Sam has escaped this punishment, that from what Oliver has said he won't even be on the stage, and for that she will take everything gladly. She even allows the collar around her neck, muttering in French about the sins the vampires are committing and that they shall all rot in hell, yet they don't try and stop her.

Oliver arrives, continuing in his double agent role, yet his eyes seem remorseful as they lock stares for one moment. In her heart, she presumes that she knows what this means, yet she tries desperately not to allow her mind to presume the worst, wanting the possibility of _hope_ for a change in her life, trying to be optimistic in a most dangerous situation.

She's revealed to the crowds, to the vampires on her side who still have no idea that she has been captured per to _her_ plan – it's a shock for them, to say the least. Yet they save themselves from reacting as they watch her kneel strong, her gaze defiant as she refuses to look towards Bishop, simply stares over at another area of the Square.

Yet then the other curtain is released and she turns to look at it, a shriek of utter fear issuing out of her mouth without her even realising: it's her Sam there, bound in chains like herself and faring all the worse than she is. Her eyes betray every single emotion in her body, leaving Bishop entirely certain of what he thought he knew from the Welcoming Feast – that she loves Sam unconditionally…and to hurt Sam is to hurt her.

Things begin to move quicker after the moment of utter pain as she finds her one true love on the stage beside her – evidently Oliver didn't worm himself enough into the plan to be able to change things like she had hoped…that or he lied to her about having the chance and he knew that it would always come to this.

There's a speech made but she hears little to none of it, her eyes continuing to be locked into Sam's, non-verbal communication passing between them in the freest she has ever been with her emotions around him.

And then he isn't there anymore.

Bishop, her _Father_, picks him up like a ragdoll and bites into his neck, the movement as sudden as anything that has happened thus far. She shrieks again, writhing to get away from Oliver who suddenly stands alert as he holds her back, this being part of the plan though she wishes it wasn't. The poison weakens her, leaves her unable to fight him off, and all she can do is cry out for Sam, cry for the decimation of the only truly good man on the stage to stop.

But it doesn't.

She doesn't know what happens next: it's all a blur, yet she sees the body of Sam slump to the floor, his eyelids barely fluttering as his body doesn't move an inch. She can't tell if it's simply to trick Bishop or whether he has died without…without her being able to say goodbye. But then Oliver cuts her free and she shoots across the stage, not bothering with the antidote or fighting the enemy as their cavalry arrives, her only focus being Sam.

He lies in her arms as she sits on the stage to hold him, tears streaming down her face as her hand cradles his cheek. She begins to tell him in words everything that she hasn't been able to tell him before, tell him that she hasn't been able to go a day without him being on her mind, that he is the best thing that has ever happened to her.

Then she tells him that he is _oh_ so much better than anyone else she has ever loved, that she can't ever imagine having another person in her heart when it is so entirely locked up with Sam.

He's fading away, she can tell, his feeble arm movements towards her ceasing as his eyelids try to shut once again. Yet he fights to keep them open and as he does, Amelie can read his eyes entirely this time – and, for the second time, she reads the entirety of a person's soul.

He's one hundred, no, one _thousand,_ times stronger and simply better than Samuel, Lord of Yorkshire. This is the man who has _died_ for her, the one who took his life into his own hands so that she could be happy – he fought for her for fifty years, never gave up, never stopped simply because he knew the truth that she was too cowardly to admit.

"No!" she screams as his eyes open and close for the last time, his lips still formed in the last word that he ever murmurs: you.

I love you.

And, just like that, he's gone…and this time, it's forever.

_~x~_

He's on her mind for the rest of the week until his funeral comes around, until the time when the only thing she can even contemplate thinking of is Sam. He's the only one who has ever had this much control over her, even now in death, and everything in her usual routine ceases: he's more important than anything else she could ever do.

She speaks words at his funeral, words she doesn't remember even seconds after they leave her mouth because one eye continues to rest upon his body for the entire time and that is the only thing that gives her the inspiration to say anything. She finds herself promising what he fought for from afar in his crusade to get to her, that humans shall be equal to vampires in so many more aspects than before.

And then she leaves the church, unable to be in such a pure, sinless place when the only vampire in the entire world who should _never_ be lying in a coffin lies in the room. The parts of the church used to be recited as her way to calm down, yet calmness is one state she hasn't had for many days now, not since the light left her Samuel's eyes for the last time.

She wanders in the graveyard during the day, keeping to the shade yet not caring if the sun happens to strike her across her bare skin: she deserves every punishment she gets for leaving him to suffer there, for not insisting that he didn't get himself involved.

She deserves _everything_ she gets…everything besides his death.

_~x~_

That night, as dusk falls, she makes her way over to his new grave, the writing bright and clear as it always will be. The dates could be that a man who has lived his years as a human could be buried in this plot, rather than a man in his early twenties who had the experience of merely half a century longer at that age than he ought to. Fifty years seems almost pitiful when she has lived for nearly fifteen hundred – and what has she achieved? Heartache that she refused to move on from before falling in love again, one thousand times stronger with more meaning, just to then lose _him_. to think she has beaten her Father, just for him to return – everything she thinks she has achieved she has lost.

As she stares down at his grave, tears spill out of her eyes in all directions, eloquence and daintiness not her priorities as she stares at his grave. He is the only man she will ever love, she decides fiercely, this being the one thing she can promise. She can visit him everyday, yet she cannot ever replace him.

She's going to be alone. Forever.

* * *

_Longest one of these OS' so far._

_And what do you think?_

_Please__ review: don't fav without reviewing, or read without reviewing, please and thanks. If you do, you'll get a PM from me._

_Vicky xx_


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